The cobras raised their hoods,
conferring together like cowled friars, concealing their
intentions. They moved slowly across each other in the
small glass cage, whispering their stories again and again to pass the uncertain time.

This one was
snatched from the sunning on the roof, this one from the
field where it had been watching a quivering, mind-numbed
mouse, this one from a garden corner where the warm rocks
had lulled it to sleep.

They dreamed of the wild, where their
paths were not blocked by glass, where the sun was real, slow,
silent and warm. Not like this weak light that whined and
whirred. A place of slow dreams. Where no one dared disturb their slumber.